


New Rules

by BoldAsBrass



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: First Time, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, Spies & Secret Agents, Yassen Gregorovich Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24259483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoldAsBrass/pseuds/BoldAsBrass
Summary: When the convoy he is travelling in comes under attack, Alex is forced to rely on his worst enemy for help.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 103
Kudos: 214





	1. Chapter 1

They were almost out of the mountains and entering the cloud forest when the ambush occurred. They had played it cautiously, travelling in a three-vehicle convoy: an armed escort vehicle to the front and the rear and, sandwiched between them, the Jeep. Alex was sitting in the Jeep’s passenger seat. Behind him, two US army SEALs flanked a smartly dressed woman in her mid-forties. Her name was Isabella Batz. She was a Swiss national, and she had been the subject of an Interpol red notice for almost five years.

They’d been driving since early morning, a deep canyon to their right and the snow-capped Andes rising above them to their left. It was a dramatic and beautiful landscape but a harsh and unyielding one. The road was unsurfaced, little more than a dirt track carved into the side of a cliff, full of hairpin bends and killer drops. Misjudge a turn and the next stop would be the ravine floor, two hundred metres below.

But, by the time of the ambush, they had traversed the worst of it. Perhaps that was part of the problem: they let their guard drop. The convoy had reached a natural passing point, where the road broadened out a little. Melt water from the mountain tops trickled down a fault in the cliff and had over the years carved out a small pool at its base. A tiny oasis of green surrounded it and a group of local people clustered there, bags and boxes of shopping at their feet, waiting to flag down one of the passing micro buses which ran back and forth between the city and the outlying villages.

Swelled by the spring thaw, the pool had spilled over the road and continued on its way down the mountain side. The passage of water had washed away some of the track, reducing the navigable portion to a narrow strip of hard packed dirt. Arturo, the driver, clicked his tongue in annoyance and switched down to first gear, edging past the waiting crowd at barely more than a crawl.

As they crossed over the water, one of the waiting men caught Alex’s eye. At first, he couldn’t have said why. It wasn’t anything he was wearing. His outfit was unremarkable: trainers, jeans, a long-padded coat with the collar turned up against the chill, a soft broad-brimmed hat. Most of the people around him were wearing variants of the same thing. What held Alex’s attention was his air of perfect relaxation. While his companions smoked, or chatted or stamped their feet, this man stood patiently, as though standing by the roadside, miles from anywhere, waiting for a micro which might never come was all he had ever wanted to do in his life. Alex had rarely seen such a perfect study of focussed calm. It reminded him of someone. When he looked in the rear-view mirror he saw Isabella Batz was looking out of the windowwith interest. As though she was on holiday and enjoying the sights.

“Can we go any faster?” he asked uneasily, but Arturo shook his head.

The two-way radio on the dashboard crackled into life, interupting what he might have said next. “Guys,” it said. “We’ve got a problem. A tree’s down up ahead. It’s blocking most of the highway.”

Alex picked up the receiver. “Uprooted? Or felled?”

As if overhearing him speak, the man in the wide-brimmed hat turned towards the Jeep and Alex had his answer. His face was mostly in shadow but beneath his hat, his eyes were an unmistakable shade of pale blue. The colour of arctic sea ice. It had been years since Alex had seen eyes that of that particular hue, but he would have recognised them anywhere. The man’s gaze fixed on his face and Alex knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had been recognised too.

“Put your foot down,” he said to Arturo. “Now.” But before Arturo could react, the world exploded around them.

Stun grenade, Alex registered dimly. The boxes and bags hadn’t held shopping. His ears were ringing and his vision had whited out. Operating on instinct, he pulled open the Jeep door and rolled under its chassis, ending up face down in the dirt. There was shouting. Gunshots. Dust kicked up from the track, scant centimetres from where he was lying. He buried his face in the crook of his arm and squeezed his eyelids shut. Above him, the Jeep rocked as the back doors burst open. Running feet. More gunshots, the retorts echoing off the ravine walls.

He counted to twenty then raised his head. His vision was still blurred but it seemed as though the confrontation had moved towards the front of the convoy. He edged forward on his stomach and peered round the Jeep’s nearside wheel. Dust hung heavy in the air, mixing with smoke and reducing the visibility to metres. A group of dark figures clustered up ahead. Friend or foe? He couldn’t make out their faces. All his instincts told him to go to his unit’s assistance, but MI6 found it useful to maintain the charade that he wasn’t a combatant and he hadn’t been issued with a sidearm. He waited another minute then crawled towards the back of the Jeep and rolled free onto the road. If he was going to make a break for freedom, then he had to move now and fast

Crouching low, he set off up the road, aiming towards the last escort vehicle. Fifty metres up the road he spotted it. Abandoned and both doors left open. He was wondering if he could hotwire it when a shout told him he had been sighted. He ducked and in the next instant a shot exploded off the cliff face showering him in a hail of sharp debris. Alex ran on. He was eighteen, in good shape and in fear of his life. The combination gave his feet wings. Voices followed but getting fainter and through them he heard a voice speak, not loud but clear, cutting through the hubbub without difficulty. “Let him run,” it said in Spanish. “Where’s he going to go?”

* * *

An hour later and Alex was asking himself the same question. He’d set off without a plan - not for the first time, a voice deep in his head observed - only thinking to get help. But all his local contacts lay on the other side of the roadblock. This way there was only the arid heights of the Altiplano stretching for another hundred kilometres before him. His best hope was to hail a passing micro, tell them the road was closed and persuade them to turn back. But as the minutes ticked by and the road climbed upwards with no sign of any approaching vehicle, he was starting to wonder what he could do as an alternative.

And a lack of transport wasn’t his only problem. The thin mountain air was crystal clear. And now, when he looked behind him, he could see a tell-tale smudge of dust, travelling along the side of the cliff getting ever closer. Though the road snaked back and forth, as the crow flew it was only four hundred metres between each hairpin bend and as the smudge rounded the next corner, it was close enough for Alex to see the dust was being raised by the Jeep. The driver was proceeding steadily, navigating each curve with care. But even the most cautious driver would be on him in fifteen minutes.

Alex looked about. It wouldn’t be dusk for another four hours and there was nowhere obvious to hide. To his right, the mountain side ascended almost vertically to the snow-capped peaks of the Andes. To the left was a sheer drop down to the canyon floor. Behind him the Jeep approached inexorably. There really was only one way to go. He set off at a slow jog. Somewhere, over the highest point of the pass, he thought he remembered a track to the right which had descended into a deep valley patchworked with green fields. If he could reach it, he might find a way down to freedom. And water, the small voice in his head observed. Alex frowned and kept on moving. He’d been trying not to think about water. The last sign of moisture had been the pool spilling over the roadside. Without a drink in the next few hours he really was going to be in trouble.

After less than a kilometre, he had to slow down, a stich burned like a lance in his side and there was a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The wind was whistling around him, sharp as a knife, but though his lungs laboured, the thin air provided almost no sustenance. He’d been climbing steadily since the roadblock. The road topped out at three thousand six hundred metres and he estimated he was above three thousand two hundred now. High enough that anyone not acclimatised to the altitude would struggle with exertion.

The ringing was so loud that he didn’t register the crunch of tyres on gravel behind him. It was only when a horn beeped twice that he reacted, flattening himself against the cliff wall. A pause and the Jeep drew up alongside him. The passenger window wound down. “Hello, Alex,” the driver said politely.

“Yassen Gregorovich,” Alex replied.

Yassen's chin dipped left then right, neither acknowledging the name, nor denying it. His hat lay abandoned on the seat beside him and his hair was no longer the bright pale blond which Alex remembered but rather a dull gunmetal grey: though whether from age, dirt, sweat or dye, he couldn't tell. Yassen's air of unruffled tranquillity, however, remained unaltered and unmistakable. He wore his face like other people wore a mask, hiding his thoughts behind a smooth façade. Only occasionally would his eyelids flicker, giving a hint of an inner life beneath his bland exterior.

“Do you want a ride?” Yassen said at last.

“No.”

Yassen nodded slowly as if the answer didn’t surprise him. “You’ve come a long way,” he observed, glancing into his wing mirror. His voice was rougher than Alex remembered, as if the dry mountain air had abraded his throat. “Over eight kilometres. I thought for a while I had lost you.”

Alex grunted and started walking again. Yassen wouldn’t be the first person to underestimate him.

Yassen put the jeep into gear and drove alongside him, keeping pace. “Alex?” he said after another twenty metres.

“What?” he said shortly. His chest was tight, the dust from the Jeep making it difficult to breathe.

“Get in the cab.”

“No.”

Yassen’s expression didn’t alter but the pause which followed Alex’s response suggested he was weighing his next words with care. “Alex.”

“What now?”

“I’m asking you nicely.”

Alex made a rude noise in the back of his throat and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. There was a high, sharp pain in his forehead and his face was sticky with sweat despite the aridity. Yassen could ask nicely all he liked, that didn't mean he had to comply.

The Jeep’s wheels spun and it overtook him with a spurt of gravel. Five metres up the trail it came to an abrupt halt and reversed sharply, angling towards the cliff face. Yassen got out, slammed the door and leaned against it, blocking his path. “Stop walking,” he said.

Alex halted. Not because he had been told to but because, right now, he couldn't think of what else to do.

“All right,” Yassen said and reached one arm slowly inside the Jeep. Alex waited, expecting at any moment to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun, but when Yassen’s hand reappeared it was holding a metal canteen. “Would you like some water?”

“No,” he said at once. Even as he spoke he realised that part of his malaise stemmed from his mouth being as dry as sawdust. Dryer even than the dirt beneath his feet. But he didn’t want to be beholden to Yassen. Not for water. Not for anything.

“Are you sure?” Yassen shook the canteen enticingly so Alex could hear the contents slosh within its metal walls. “Not to clean up your face?”

He brushed his hair back from his forehead and found it was gritty with dust. “Why would I want to do that?”

A flicker of something behind Yassen’s eyes, gone too fast to identify. “You’re bleeding.”

“No, I’m not,” he said. But when he went to wipe the stickiness away he found his fingers were covered in blood.

“Why don’t you get in the Jeep?” Yassen asked from a long way away, as he stared in puzzlement at his scarlet hand.

“Leave me alone.” His voice sounded weak and petulant. He was thirsty and bleeding and all of a sudden he wanted to cry. Only the lack of moisture in his body prevented him. “You’re meant to be dead. Why can’t you just stay dead?”

You’re dehydrated, the dispassionate voice in his head informed him. It sounded just like his uncle. Dehydrated and disorientated and your nose is bleeding because of the altitude. You’re in a bad way, Alex. You need to get off this mountain. You need to do it right now.

“Alex?”

 _Now! Alex_ , his uncle snapped. Alex had rarely heard him so angry. Wearily, he turned and took a step forward. Then another. He could do this. Nice and easy. Downhill all the way. Or until he reached the roadblock, whichever one came first.

“Alex,” said Yassen. His voice sounded much closer. Almost in Alex’s ear. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” he said. “I have to go home. Jack will be worried about me.” He took a third step and then a fourth. He was attempting a fifth, when the road swung up and spun him around, before slapping him hard in the face.

He lay in the dirt, unmoving, uncertain about what had just happened and unwilling to try to find out in case it happened again. Something nudged him in the ribs. He ignored it. He was tired and he ached all over. He just wanted to be left alone. Why couldn’t people leave him alone? The nudging returned, more insistently. Then, before he could voice his objections, he was hoisted into the air like a sack of potatoes. Gravel crunched, a car door opened and he was deposited without ceremony into the back of the Jeep.


	2. Chapter 2

The journey passed in a series of uneasy dreams. He was on a life raft tossed back and forth on a stormy sea, barely able to keep his face above water. In fact, not able to keep his face above water: water splashing over him. He woke up spluttering to find an arm beneath his shoulders and water being dribbled into his mouth. It was tepid, tasted of iodine, and was delicious. He gulped eagerly and reached for the source only to find it moved out of reach.

“Slowly,” a voice warned him.

He nodded understanding, and the canteen was returned to his lips. Another few cautious swallows and he risked opening his eyes. Yassen’s face swam into focus above him, then out of focus, then into focus again. He looked, not concerned exactly - Alex couldn’t imagine his features ever arranging themselves into that particular configuration - but intent. He glanced about and found he was lying, half-sprawled, across the back seat of the Jeep. The rocking of the life raft had been the motion of the vehicle as it had wound its way along the narrow mountain road.

“Where are we?” he said, trying to lever himself upright, with limited success.

“Past the highest point.” Yassen studied him a moment longer then slid from the seat, and took up position by the open door.

Alex nodded again and wished that he hadn’t. Past the highest point, perhaps, but still high enough up that he could feel the effect of the altitude pressing like an iron band around his temples. “Why have we stopped?”

Yassen recapped the canteen. “I needed to stretch my legs.”

“Oh.” Turning his head to look out of the windows he saw they’d pulled up at a stopping place, a viewpoint high above the valley floor. The canyon beneath them had opened out into a softer, greener landscape. Houses and fields dotted its surface. In the distance, a second mountain range shimmered beneath a deep-blue sky. He pulled himself higher in the seat only to realise part of his difficulty in manoeuvring stemmed from his shoelaces being tied together. He supposed he ought to be flattered. The chances of him making it to vertical seemed pretty slim right now, let alone anything else. “Are you kidnapping me?”

Yassen rested his forearm on the Jeep roof and gazed out over the valley, apparently lost in rapt contemplation of the view. “Kidnapping, rescuing…”

Kidnapping, Alex decided. Definitely. Sitting up had been a mistake. Things were going in and out of focus again and when Yassen ducked to look into the Jeep his face had dissolved into a featureless blur. 

“In another hour we will be there.”

“Where?” he wanted to ask, but the dark tide was rising about him, and the question was lost in its depths.

* * *

The next time he woke he knew, even before he opened his eyes, that he was at a much lower altitude. His headache had receded and air felt warmer and more humid. He was lying on a mattress and there was warm orange glow behind his eyelids. The only sounds were the creak of wood, the snap of canvas and a low hum, as though he was lying on the deck of a sailing ship. Curiosity made him open his eyes and he found was in a tent, lying on a narrow camp bed covered by a brightly striped woollen blanket. The orange light came from the sunshine filtering though the canvas. The sound came from the wind playing along the guy ropes. Looking about he saw the tent was of the type he was familiar with from Scout camp: canvas walls and ceiling but a wooden floor and frame. A central supporting post gave sufficient headroom for a man to stand upright along the mid-line. A light fitting screwed into main beam suggested there was a power source nearby. Otherwise, there were few clues to his location. Apart from the bed, the only other furnishings were a small locker at its foot and a rag rug on the floor. A long duffle bag lay alongside the far wall.

Pushing back the blanket, he found he was still dressed apart from his boots. A rope had been tethered around his right ankle. Following it to its source, he saw it snaked across the floor and had been attached to the base of the central post. It looked like it had been fashioned from high grade climbing rope. An exploratory tug revealed it felt like it had been fashioned from high grade climbing rope too, and that whoever had tied the knots had done a thorough job. He worked on them for a few minutes but focussing on the rope made his head hurt and his short-bitten fingernails didn’t help with the task.

The sound of footsteps on wood interrupted his efforts. He lay down and pulled up the blanket to his chin just as Yassen entered the tent. As the door drew back, he saw they were raised up a metre or so above the ground, with a boarded deck area before them. Yassen was carrying two plastic pails of water. As he bent to set one down on the deck, Alex caught a glimpse of a smooth green field over his shoulder, distant mountains and a scattering of nearby tents. He carried the second pail inside and placed it carefully onto the rug, before letting the door fall shut.

“Stay out of sight,” he advised when he saw Alex was awake. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Alex blinked at him groggily. It didn’t take much acting ability. ”Where’s here?”

Yassen stripped off his coat before answering, placing it on top of the locker. Beneath he was wearing standard hiking gear: a black fleece jacket, thermal trousers and brown walking boots. Most people would have looked hot and bothered in the warmer air of the valley, but Yassen’s aura of glacial calm didn’t permit him to look flustered. “A tent,” he said at last.

“A tent where?”

“Bolivia.”

”Okay,” Alex said. It was obviously going to be that kind of conversation. He tried a different tack. “Why am I tied up?”

Yassen sat on the rug and began unlacing his boots. “Because you can’t be trusted not to run off up a mountain with no water and no hat,” he said. His voice had grown smoother with use, losing its gravelly quality. He sounded as Alex remembered: quiet, serious, eminently reasonable.

“I was going for help.”

Yassen prised off his boots and carried them out to the porch, where he placed them neatly side by side. Returning to the main tent he stood, half leaning on the central post, looking down at Alex with an air of polite inquiry. “Help from where?” 

Alex resisted the urge to pick at the stitching which ran along the blanket’s hem. “Something would have turned up.” Something normally did.

“Something did,” Yassen said. “Me.” A flicker of amusement passed over his face, gone in an instant. With a customary economy of movement, he began stripping off his fleece and base layers, dropping them into a heap onto the rug. Alex had a confused impression of a compactly muscled body before quickly looking away.

“What are you doing?” he asked, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he was.

Yassen bent to open the locker. “Washing.”

“Oh.” As if magnetised his eyes returned to Yassen’s torso, first to the star shaped scar on his chest, and then to the pale trail of hair, several shades lighter than that on his head, which tapered down his flat stomach.

His attention didn’t go unremarked. Yassen paused, bar of soap in one hand and towel in the other. “What?”

Alex hastily redirected his gaze to the ceiling. “You’re meant to be dead.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The sound of a zip told him that the trousers were going the same way as Yassen’s other garments. “So what, you just… changed your mind?” he asked, not moving his eyes.

“Something like that.”

Alex waited but it appeared to be the only explanation he would get. A splash and he saw Yassen had dunked his head into the bucket. A pause then he emerged, shook himself quickly like a dog and began vigorously soaping his hair.

It was a brief but thorough washing. Arms, torso and legs, then armpits, genitals and feet were all subjected to same energetic treatment before Yassen towelled himself off briskly, leaving his skin pink and clean. Quite a bright pink in some places, Alex registered, stealing another quick look. Ablutions complete, Yassen packed his dirty clothes into the duffle bag and removed a loose pair of cotton trousers, and a sleeveless T-shirt from the locker, pulling them on and tying the drawstring tight. No underwear, Alex saw with a resurgence of unease, but Yassen appeared to have other priorities in mind. He disposed of the bucket of dirty water outside then returned to the tent to look through his bag. His short hair dried rapidly and now that it was clean of grime Alex could see it had indeed been dyed to a nondescript shade of mouse. Yassen might not be dead, but he wasn’t eager for his continued survival to draw notice. Awkward for him then, that one of the few people who could identify had turned up in Bollivia.

Yassen sat back on his heels and considered him thoughtfully. He seemed remarkably philosophical for a man whose cover had been blown. “Do you want something to eat?”

His stomach recoiled at the prospect and he shook his head. “Just water.”

He half expected to be told he needed to eat, but Yassen just nodded and handed him the canteen, before going to sit on the deck. After few minutes Alex’s nose caught the distinctive odour of a hexamine stove, and some time later a warm waft of curry. It was probably only an army surplus boil in the bag ration pack, but it smelled pretty good. He sipped at the water and tried to ignore the hollow in his middle and the faint, perverse sense of annoyance that he had been taken at his word.

* * *

He fell into a fitful doze, not rousing until Yassen entered the tent and flicked on the light. It was fully dark outside but Alex couldn’t hear a generator. Either they were hooked up to the main grid or somewhere close by there was a really big battery. He wondered if Arturo and the others were being held in another of the tents and realised guiltily that he hadn’t thought about them since the ambush. Capture was probably the best possible outcome; Yassen wasn’t known for his merciful nature.

“Did I wake you?” Yassen asked, pausing by the tent door. He didn’t seem like a monster with his mild voice and his clean-cut appearance. But that was why he was dangerous. Spend too long in his company and you’d forget what he did for a living. “Sit up,” he continued when Alex didn’t reply.

“Why?”

“Because I need to sort out your face.”

“My face is fine,” Alex said. “I don’t need your help.”

Without speaking, Yassen took a small folding mirror from a side pocket of his bag and handed it to him.

“Oh,” he said taking in the full extent of the damage. He had expected the gravel rash on his temple and the black marks on his upper lip where his nose had bled and dried and flaked. But he had not been prepared for the puffiness around his eyes, the crusted blood across his forehead, or the two narrow tracks cutting through the streaked dirt on his cheeks which told him he’d been wrong when he’d thought he was too dehydrated to cry. “Well, most of that is just swelling from the altitude,” he said at last, trying to make the best of a bad job.

Yassen retrieved a first aid kit from the locker and unzipped it, checking the contents.

Alex turned his head back and forth, seeking out the source of the blood on his forehead and finding it in a deep gash beneath his hairline. “What caused that?” he wondered, poking at it to see if it hurt. It did.

“You hit your head when you fainted.”

“I didn’t faint,” Alex said. “I tripped.”

“Yes,” Yassen said. “You tripped. Flat onto your face. Stop admiring yourself and look up at the light.”

The first aid kit was small, but fearsomely well stocked: Antiseptic wipes, iodine, gauze, tweezers and paper stiches were laid out in a neat row on to the rug. Yassen wiped his face with antiseptic first while Alex tried not to wince. Then he upended an empty bucket and sat before him, using the tweezers to work out each piece of gravel with meticulous care, before dabbing each spot with iodine.

Alex stared up at the canvas roof of the tent and tried to ignore that his erstwhile worst enemy was leaning so close he could feel his breath on his cheek. “I could do this myself if you let me have the tweezers,” he muttered.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Yassen took hold of his chin and angled it firmly so his temple was under the light. “I don’t intend to let you have anything sharp.”

“Trust issues, that’s your problem,” he began, but before he could continue, Yassen had daubed iodine onto the cut on his forehead and he had to clench his jaw tight to keep from yelping.

“I expect you’re right,” Yassen said. He capped the iodine bottle and put it down, fixing his face with an appraising stare while Alex did his best not to fidget. That unblinking blue scrutiny was unnerving at the best of times, never mind when it was being levelled at him at close quarters.

“All done?” he asked when the pause had extended for an uncomfortable length of time.

“One last thing.” Yassen took a blue pot from the first aid kit and unscrewed the lid.

“What’s that?” Alex asked suspiciously. It looked familiar.

“Face cream.”

“Get off!” he protested, trying to scramble out of arm’s reach. “I don’t need moisturising.”

But Yassen had a firm hold of his chin and didn’t release him until he was thoroughly daubed. “It will help with any peeling.”

“Great,” Alex said. Now not only was he covered in grazes and iodine stains, he was a walking oil slick. What were the odds he’d have a massive break out in three day's time?

Yassen shrugged, unmoved by his protests and rubbed a dab of Nivea into his face. A face which was, admittedly, remarkably smooth and unlined for his age. Probably, Alex thought sourly because he only registered an emotion once every three weeks.

Beautification complete, Yassen collected up the components of the first aid kit and stowed them away in his bag. “I want to sleep now,” he announced when he was done. 

“Okay?” Alex said.

Another glimmer of amusement. “You’re in my bed.”

“Oh.” He rolled hastily to his feet then looked around the sparsely furnished tent. “So, where am I supposed to sleep?”

Yassen nodded towards the floor. “There.”

“Right.” He hesitated, uncertain if this was an example of deadpan Russian humour in action, but apparently not. Yassen lay on the bunk with a small sigh and reached above his head to switch off the light. The tent dissolved at once into blackness. Lights out and early to bed. Being kidnapped was turning out to be more similar to scout camp than Alex had expected, knot practice and all. He stretched out on the floor and did his best to make himself comfortable. The rug provided some cushioning but he could already tell this wasn't going to be the most restful night.

“Are there any more blankets?” he asked after five minutes.

“There are no more blankets.” There was no malice in Yassen’s response. He was simply stating a fact.

“Right.” Alex said again and wedged in his hands into his armpits. The tent had a roof and a floor, he told himself, and the temperature was well above freezing. It could be far worse.

He didn’t hear Yassen move, he just felt something drop on him from on high. When he investigated he discovered it was light, padded and had a distinctly gamey aroma. Yassen’s coat, he deduced. He sniffed at the collar dubiously. “It smells like llama.”

A calm voice spoke from the bunk. “Give it back.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said hastily and wrapped it around him. “I’ll keep it.”

He half-expected an invisible hand to emerge from the darkness and pluck it away but the only response was slow, quiet breathing. The coat, though light, was warm. Down-filled, he registered drowsily. Say what you like about Russians, you could count on them to have a good coat.


	3. Chapter 3

Alex awoke at some unknown time in the middle of the night. The darkness inside the tent was absolute, dark enough that he couldn’t see his hand when he waved it before his face. He was sorer than he had been a few hours ago, a new crop of bruises starting to make their presence known. The cut on his forehead throbbed and his ribs hadn't been helped by a few hours on the hard floor. But it wasn’t those aches which had woken him, he realised as he shifted position. His bladder was full, painfully so, and to complicate matters further he was awkwardly and uncomfortably hard. “Oh fantastic,” he muttered.

“What?” a voice said from somewhere above him.

“What?” he said defensively, drawing the coat tighter around him.

“I don’t know,” Yassen said. “You woke up, so I woke up.”

Alex rolled his eyes at the invisible ceiling. Of course, Yassen would sleep with one ear open, alert to any change in Alex’s state. Of course he would. It had probably been on the syllabus at Malagosto. Somewhere between garrotting and learning how to be a supercilious dick. But his irritation was fleeting; more pressing matters were clamouring for his attention. “I need a piss,” he admitted, taking refuge in vulgarity to hide his embarrassment.

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“Nope,” he said tightly. He’d drunk most of the canteen of water the previous night, seeking to block out his hunger, and to make matters worse the altitude increase had kicked his kidneys into overdrive. The way things were feeling right now, he wasn’t going to last another ten minutes, let alone the uncounted hours until daylight. “Fine,” he added when no immediate answer was forthcoming. “I guess I’ll have to go on your coat.”

A low exhale came from the bunk, audible only because Yassen wanted him to hear it and to know that he was being annoying.

“You shouldn’t have kidnapped me, if you didn’t want to deal with the logistics.”

“I am coming to the same conclusion.”

Without warning, the light turned on and Yassen sat up in the bunk. He looked exactly the same as when he had lain down to sleep. No pillow crease on his cheek, no bleary eyes, certainly no bed hair. If Alex hadn’t seen him eating and drinking he might have assumed he spent his inert hours in a coffin. Unspeaking, Yassen stood, stepped over his supine body and crossed over the tent. He unzipped the canvas doorway, took a bucket from the porch, smaller than the one he had washed in, and placed it on the floor. ”There.”

Alex raised himself up onto his elbows and pushed a shock of hair back from his face. He had been too caught up in the immediacy of his predicament to give much thought to the details of how it might be resolved. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” Yassen said in the flat voice of a man who did not habitually kid and certainly not at this time of night.

He looked between the bucket, the bright and all-revealing light and Yassen’s laser sharp eyes. “Can’t you untie me so I can go outside?”

This suggestion was greeted with a long, cool stare. “Do you need to go or not?”

Alex shifted miserably. The urge was not subsiding. Unfortunately, neither was his erection. “Yeah,” he muttered.

“Then there’s your answer.”

Still Alex hesitated. It was a perfectly natural physiological reaction, he told himself. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Still the thought of exposing himself to that cool, appraising gaze made his balls want to climb inside his body with shame. “I can’t go while you’re watching,” he said at last.

A pause followed during which Yassen managed to convey without words or apparent shift in expression a profound scepticism about this claim. “So what do you do when you’re on exercise?”

A slow blush crawled up his neck. “Hide behind a tree.”

“And if there are no trees?”

Sweat began to dew on his upper lip. Talking about it was not helping. “Look,” he said urgently. “I know you think this is some kind of ruse. But it’s not. It’s just how I am. And the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can go back to bed.”

Somewhat to his surprise, the appeal worked. With a silent shrug Yassen went to stand outside. Keeping one eye on the tent door, Alex pushed his clothes down his hips and began the protracted and difficult process of trying to pee with an erection. He was as stiff as an iron rod and excruciatingly aware of his invisible audience. For a few tense seconds he was afraid embarrassment was going to make a liar of him. Then biological necessity overcame bashfulness, and continued to do so for quite some significant amount of time.

Afterwards, he did up his trousers, almost dizzy with relief. “I’m done,” he said and crawled beneath the coat, pulling it up around his ears.

Without answering, Yassen appeared, took the bucket and went outside to empty it. He left the tent door unzipped. Alex hesitated for a moment then shifted about to peer out after him. The moon had set, it was as dark outside as within. Down in the valley, he could make out the faint glimmer of electric lights, and the distant sound of voices raised in drunken song. The sound sent a prickle along his spine. Were Arturo and the others down there? What were they facing if so? Concern warred with a sudden shamefaced relief that he was sequestered with Yassen. Not safe, exactly, but safer than any of the alternatives.

Quick footsteps told him he was no longer alone and he rolled into a docile lump on the floor. A pause. He could feel Yassen’s eyes on his back. He remained silent and unmoving, feigning exhaustion. The bunk creaked, the light clicked off and he lay listening to the pulse of his heartbeat, the wind humming in the guy ropes until sleep claimed him once more.

* * *

The next morning sunlight woke him. The tent door was open and motes of dust floated in the rays of light which slanted through the narrow gap. He could hear quiet movements outside. So much for being trained for espionage since childhood, he thought gloomily. Yassen was up and about and he hadn’t registered it at all.

As if to highlight his deficiencies Yassen glanced through the tent door. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah.” He sat up and cast aside the coat. Now the sun had risen the inside air temperature was increasing rapidly and he felt sticky and unpleasantly frowsy from sleeping in his clothes. He ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair, pushing it out of his eyes. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Yassen ducked his head inside the tent. He was dressed and had the quietly contemplative air of a man who had been awake for hours. “I was enjoying the peace. Breakfast?”

“Yes,” Alex said at once. As soon as he spoke he realised that at least part of his bad mood stemmed from the fact his stomach wasn’t only empty it was knocking against his spine. Whatever nausea had plagued him the previous day, it was gone. He hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours and he was _hungry_.

“All right,” Yassen said, and disappeared outside again.

Alex made a beeline for the porch only to be brought up short by his tether. “Is this really necessary?” he called as he hopped backwards, arms windmilling in the attempt to keep upright.

“It keeps you out of trouble,” Yassen said and handed him a mess tin through the open door.

Alex was too absorbed in his breakfast to dignify that with a response. It was British Army finest boil in the bag sausage and beans. High calorie rations designed for personnel out in the field. It was hot, and salty and greasy and it tasted like heaven on earth. He could have another three portions. As it was, he followed it by two packets of standard issue fruit biscuits washed down by a mug of strong tea, while Yassen sat on the porch and watched him thoughtfully. By the time he was finished, Alex felt like a new man. Ready to take on the world. Or at least he would be, once he found a way to slip his leash.

After breakfast, Yassen shaved, heating water on the stove before propping the mirror on the bunk and settling down before it. Alex half expected him to produce a cutthroat razor, from the depths of the duffle bag just to showcase how cool and badass he was. But actually he used a standard Gillette with a disposable head, lathering himself with shaving soap before cutting neat swaths through his stubble.

“You should cut your hair,” he said, when he noticed Alex was watching.

“I don’t want to cut my hair.” He’d long since learned that hair like his could be worn in one of two lengths: crew cut or beneath his chin where the weight helped to tame it. Any style in between required half a tub of gel to keep it under control.

Yassen wiped his face free of suds and rinsed his razor before favouring him with another assessing stare. “I’m serious, you should get it cut.”

“Leave my hair alone.” He’d had variants of this same conversation often enough with Jack. He certainly didn’t need it from Yassen.

“How can you see with all this hanging in your eyes?” Without warning, Yassen leaned across the tent to where he was sitting and rumpled a hand through his hair. “People will think you’re a Shetland pony.”

“Get off,” Alex grumbled shaking himself free.

Unfortunately, Yassen seemed to find his annoyance amusing. He took hold of one of the dangling tresses which hung over Alex’s forehead and tugged on it, stretching the curl so it extended almost down to his jawline, before letting it spring back into place. “Little pony,” he said.

Alex stayed motionless, uncertain how to react. At this distance he could tell Yassen’s eyebrows had been dyed to the same sandy shade as his hair. His eyelashes though, were still pale blond. The effect was subtly unsettling, although the casual observer would be hard pushed to put their finger on why. The reason would only be apparent if Yassen was up close and into your space. At which point, he thought uneasily, you would have more important things to worry about than the colour of his eyelashes.

Abruptly, Yassen seemed to recollect himself. He picked up the breakfast things and rose to his feet. “I’m going to get water. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Hilarious,” Alex muttered at his retreating back. He circled thoughtfully around the tent pole until his tether wound him to a halt, first one way and then the other. “Well, that was weird,” he remarked at last to the empty tent. He’d seen Yassen at work, and he’d seen him at rest. But he’d never seen him attempt playful before. The effect was unnerving. Like watching a Great White shark attempt to frolic in the surf. He waited five minutes then ten, then looked out onto the porch. The water bucket was gone and so was Yassen. Alone at last, he thought, and began searching the tent.

* * *

Unfortunately, the search yielded precious little information other than confirmation that Yassen had not grown careless in the intervening years. Alex could reach the locker, but that contained only the neatly folded pile of clothes he had seen the previous evening. Even lying on his stomach, the duffle bag remained frustratingly out of reach. Yassen had been serious about not allowing him access to anything sharp. No mirror, or glass or cutlery lay helpfully unattended. He could shout for help, he supposed, but remembering the previous night’s singing, he wasn’t eager to heap more trouble onto his head. Short of throwing a bar of shaving soap at an unwanted intruder he had limited ways to defend himself.

With a grunt of annoyance he subsided onto the rug. He’d been in worse predicaments but rarely more irritating ones. Of all the people to be kidnapped by (rescued by, the quiet voice in his head observed) Yassen Gregorovich had to be the worst. Even his ongoing refusal to harm Alex was irritating, as though he didn’t consider them to be equals. Part of him was tempted to trash the tent in childish retaliation, but that would be needlessly inflammatory. Whatever Yassen’s operational status, he was not a man to antagonise. Although, Alex reflected, it was hard to imagine him ever truly losing his cool. There was something robotic about him. Being shot in the chest, shooting someone in the chest, it was all one to him. Even in the heat of passion, he’d be the same: his hips pistoning in and out smoothly while his expression remained completely impassive.

“Heh,” he said uneasily and rolled off his stomach.

The rope around his ankle distracted him for a while but the knots had been securely tied and the rope proved impervious to teeth as well as nails. After ten minute’s investigation he accepted defeat and followed the tether to its anchoring point. It had been tied high around the tent’s central wooden post. The knot was out of arm’s reach, but if he put tension onto the rope he found he could lean backwards and walk up the post. It didn’t get him any closer to his goal, but it provided a change of perspective. He was halfway to the ceiling, horizontal to the floor, when Yassen appeared silently on the porch. He was carrying the water bucket in one hand and a canvas bag in the other. A pair of dark glasses concealed his eyes but not his air of perplexity.

“You’re feeling better,” he observed placing the bucket on the rug.

Alex dropped to his feet and brushed off his hands. “Just hanging out.”

“Funny,” Yassen said. “Like your father.” It was unclear if it was meant as a compliment.

He took off his sunglasses and folded them into his chest pocket. He was dressed in jeans, fleece jacket and light weight Gore-tex trainers. The impression was of a keen hiker taking a rest day, rather than a member of a shadowy paramilitary organisation out on operation. Only his eyes gave the lie to his seemingly relaxed appearance. They flicked around the tent, observing everything which Alex had touched and revealing nothing of his inner thoughts.

“What took you so long? You’ve been ages.” Alex shook his tether accusingly. “I could have hanged myself.” 

This statement earned him another thoughtful stare. “Are you planning to hang yourself?” 

“Probably not,” Alex admitted. The last thing he wanted was for Yassen to decide to truss him up for his own good.

Yassen set down the bag and began unpacking its contents into the locker. “Since I wasn't expecting to entertain visitors, I had to buy extra supplies.”

“Oh.” Supplies meant they couldn’t be that far from civilisation. Alex filed that scrap of information away for future use. “Get anything good?”

“This.” Yassen took a bottle from the bag and tossed it to him. It was shower gel, a generic brand found in every mini-market. “It’s time for you to wash. You’re making the tent smell.” A minute flicker of amusement. “Like a llama.”

Alex ignored him in favour of inspecting the shower gel. It was blue and smelled inoffensively soapy. “This place has showers?” Showers meant being untied, meant a chance for escape.

“No.” Yassen indicated the bucket with a jerk of his chin. 

“Seriously?” But the last time he’d showered had been in La Paz, and he’d undertaken a fair amount of exertion since then. Possibly he did smell quite ripe. “Well, I’m not doing it while you’re watching,” he added, tacitly conceding the point.

“Fine.” Yassen took a bundle from the duffle bag and went to sit on the porch step.

Alex set the shower gel on the floor and sighed inwardly. A strip wash was far from his favourite activity, but his hair felt gritty and his skin was tacky, and it wasn’t as though he had anything else plannned. Working quickly, he stripped off his clothes and knelt on the floor, but when he plunged his hands into the water the reason for Yassen’s briskness the previous evening became clear. He had expected the water to be cool, but the contents of the bucket were bone-numbingly, sinus-achingly cold. Barely above freezing. “What is this?” he asked recoiling in shock. “Ice melt?”

Yassen set out brush and polish onto the step before answering. “The outdoors does not usually come with hot running water.”

“Great,” Alex said. As if a bout of altitude sickness wasn’t bad enough, now he was being asked to court hypothermia.

“I did not think you’d be scared of a little cold water,” Yassen murmured as he began unlacing his boots.

Alex made a face at the back of his head. Like he didn’t know reverse psychology when he heard it. “Fine.”

He dipped his head gingerly into the bucket and began soaping his hair, mindful of the cut on his forehead. Ice water trickled slowly down his neck and gooseflesh covered his bare arms. There were two ways of doing this, he realised: the timid way or the Russian way. With a deep breath, he dunked his head into the bucket before he could have second thoughts. The shock of the cold left him gasping but he was committed now. Using his balled-up T-shirt as a washcloth, he scrubbed himself clean. By the time he was done he was cold but bright with endorphins, like he’d bathed his body in menthol.

To his consternation, he found his discarded clothing really did smell, a mixture of dry sweat and dirt. The idea of putting them on again made him grimace in distaste. He pulled on Yassen’s coat as the least objectionable option, and began rinsing his things in the bucket. They were lightweight technical gear, designed to dry in a few hours. Spread them out in the sun and they would be ready to wear by evening.

“Can you hang these outside?” he asked when he was done.

Yassen looked around from brushing the mud from his boots. “What?”

“My things,” he said displaying the damp bundle in his arms. “Can you hang them out?”

Yassen ran his eyes over him, down to his bare feet then back up to his damp hair. “You’re wearing my coat.”

“Yeah?” He looked down at himself then back at Yassen. “Is that okay? I didn’t have anything else to put on.” Belatedly, he wondered if he had done something wrong. The coat was perfectly decent. It covered him from neck to knee. Still, Yassen’s reaction suggested he’d committed some kind of faux pas.

The ensuing pause extended itself strangely. Then, without speaking, Yassen rose to his feet and the hairs on Alex’s back stood up. Something about the way Yassen was carrying himself, unhurried but purposeful, was profoundly unsettling. It whispered that until recently he had been one of Scorpia’s most lethal operatives, and you forgot that fact at your peril.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. Unconsciously, he took a step backwards, and then another until the tether halted his retreat. “Yassen?” he added as the distance between them diminished.

Yassen stopped a few feet away, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said and took the bundle from his slack grasp without speaking further.

“Right,” Alex muttered to his retreating back, more shaken than he wanted to admit. “If you say so.” He tugged the coat’s zip higher up his chin and went to sit by the bunk, doing his best to look small and unthreatening.

Yassen was gone for a few minutes. When he returned he stood with his hands in his pockets and stared down at Alex with pale unsettling eyes while Alex wriggled his toes in the rug and kept his gaze meekly lowered. “It’s been a while since anyone called me that,” he said at last. “‘Yassen.’”

“So you’ve got a new name now?” he asked, not expecting an answer but hoping to defuse the weird tension which had arisen between them.

A pause, then to his relief Yassen shrugged and returned to sit on the front step. “Yassen was never my name.”

“Oh.” Alex digested this piece of intelligence in silence. So MI6 hadn’t even had that right. Yassen had been one step ahead of them the whole time.

“It’s a name I was given,” Yassen continued, taking up the boot brush.

Prudence counselled caution but curiosity won out. “What? Like a call sign?”

“Not really,” Yassen said, but he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.

Alex drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them. “So what should I call you then, if you’re not going by Yassen any more?”

Yassen shrugged. “You can call me what you want.” He glanced over his shoulder with a hint of sly humour. “You can call me God, if you like.”

He frowned uncomprehending. “Why would I call you God?”

“Oh, no reason,” Yassen said tranquilly and returned to cleaning his boots.


	4. Chapter 4

Lunch was spicy vegetable pasta eaten cold from the pack and a raspberry vitamin drink made up from powder. Neither was as good as the morning's breakfast. When they had finished, Yassen tossed him a high energy protein bar which managed to be at once mouth-stickingly dry while also having the consistency of candle wax. For himself, he took a large orange from the canvas bag and ate it neatly, a feat which Alex had yet to master. Every scrap of pith and peel was whisked away with a small, sharp knife and each juicy segment consumed in contemplative silence. Alex had rarely seen such intense concentration expended upon a piece of fruit. He nibbled his way through the energy bar manfully, though his mouth cried out for moisture. Calories were calories, and he’d long since learned to eat when the opportunity arose.

In the afternoon, the temperature rose as sun beat down from above. The air in the tent grew heavy and thick. Yassen stripped down to T-shirt and jeans and stretched out on the bunk, reading a slim paperback while Alex lay on the floor trying to catch a breeze thought the half open door.

“What are you reading?” he asked at last.

Yassen showed him the book’s cover. It was a biography of a free climber. One of the pioneers in the field, responsible for establishing several of the classic routes.

“Oh, I’ve read that,” Alex said helpfully. “He dies at the end.”

“I know he does,” Yassen said and returned to reading.

Alex glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Yassen’s expression was serious and absorbed, his eyelashes casting faint shadows onto his cheekbones. He didn’t look like a killer. He was clean-shaven, neatly dressed, smooth faced: some might say good looking. But then again, appearances could be deceptive. His uncle had looked like a banker right up until the day he had died. He rotated his foot slowly, winding the tether around his ankle. Unwinding it. Winding it up again. Unwinding it. Watching the shadows crawl across the floor.

“So you knew my father,” he said at last.

“Yes,” Yassen said without looking up.

“You _loved_ my father,” Alex persisted. Winding. Unwinding. Winding. Unwinding.

This did net him a response: a long assessing stare. “In a way, yes.”

“Hero-worshipped him, Ash said,” Alex continued recklessly. Pursuing this line of questioning was foolhardy, he knew it, but he was bored and hot and restless, and Yassen’s comment about John Rider had been preying on his mind.

Yassen returned to his book. “Who’s Ash?”

“Howell. Anthony Howell.”

“Oh.” A flicker of disdain. “Him. I wouldn’t put much store on what he said.”

He waited, but that was all Yassen appeared to have to say on the matter. The lack of reaction only spurred him on. Like a dog with a bone, he returned to his previous subject. “When I said _knew_ my father, what I meant-”

“I know what you meant,” Yassen said. He turned a page in his book.

“Right,” Alex said. His palms were damp with perspiration but he couldn’t seem to stop talking. “And?”

He expected to be told to mind his own business. Or that nothing had happened at all. Or for Yassen to simply ignore him. What he didn’t expect was for Yassen to say in a perfectly conversational tone, “Only the once.”

“Right,” he said again. He blew out a long breath, feeling as though he’d been punched in the gut. Rule number one: don’t ask the question if you didn’t want to know the answer. “So Dad cheated on Mum, then?” he said, absorbing the implications. “Fantastic.”

Yassen rested the book on his lap. His expression revealed - not pity exactly - but an understanding which Alex wasn’t sure he wanted. Not right now. Not for the first time, he had the disconcerting sensation that Yassen knew his thoughts better than he did. “You know, when people are out in the field -”

“‘What happens on tour, stays on tour,’ you mean?” Alex interrupted, making sarcastic quotation marks with his fingers.

Yassen shrugged and returned to reading. “Something like this.”

Alex gave a soundless snort. It sounded like bullshit to him. He stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. There was a low buzzing in his ears. A tightness in his throat. People were always letting you down, he thought. Even decades after they died, they were still letting you down. His anger built to a crescendo and he welcomed it and the cleansing rush of adrenaline which came with it. “So who went on top?” he asked. “Was it my Dad?”

As soon as he had spoken he knew that he’d crossed a line. And not just crossed it. Sprinted across it so fast that it was just a faint blur in the distance.

Yassen closed the book and set it down on the bunk. “What did you say?”

“Who went on top?” he repeated, as his heart began to race and adrenaline sang in his blood.

Yassen turned so he was sitting on the side of the bunk, feet on the floor, forearms resting on his thighs, body language very deliberate. “Alex,” he said neutrally. Not angry, Alex thought, _just disappointed_ , and a bubble of hysterical laughter began working its way up his throat. “You banged your head yesterday. And now your mouth is running away with you. I answered your question. But now it's time for you to be quiet.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Alex heard himself say, as if at a great distance. A stupid grin spread over his face. “It was my Dad.”

What happened next happened too fast for him to feel surprise. Too fast for any kind of reaction. Yassen’s hand fastened into his hair and he stood, dragging Alex up onto his feet with him. “That is enough,” he said.

“Get off me!” Alex’s hands flew to his scalp, fighting to prise himself free. But Yassen’s fingers were as strong as steel hooks and he try as he might, he couldn’t dislodge them

“And this is why you should cut your hair,” Yassen said, observing his struggles as dispassionately as a man might observe an insect caught in a spiderweb. “When it’s long like this, anyone can catch hold of you.”

Alex didn’t waste his breath in arguing. He dug his thumbs into the flesh of Yassen’s wrist instead, seeking to loosen his hold. He might have been wrestling with a marble statue for all the effect it had. The only result was to make the hand on his head tighten further, pulling at his hair in painful warning.

“And now what?” Yassen asked when at last he conceded defeat and was left standing awkwardly with his neck at an angle, like a puppet dangling from a string.

Alex hesitated. Now what indeed? Technically, he was in the stronger position. Both his hands were free. Judged correctly, a punch from this range could shatter Yassen’s jaw. If he was prepared to do it. Was he prepared to do it? That fractional pause proved his undoing. A sharp tug on his tether pulled him off balance, then a hook sweep took out his supporting leg and slammed him onto the floorboards, driving the breath from his lungs.

Yassen crouched by his chest observing him thoughtfully as he gasped and wheezed for air. “Don’t push me, Alex,” he said at last, in a voice all the more terrifying for its complete lack of emotion.

Alex nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The bubble of hysterical laughter had burst. The calculated violence of Yassen’s response had been like a bucket of ice water over his head. As the seconds ticked by and neither of them spoke, the implications of what he had said began to sink in, leaving him feeling small and ashamed. He’d blurted out things in the past which he had regretted almost in the same instant; letting his mouth run away with him before his brain had a chance to engage. But the comments he’d just made were a new departure for him. Not just smart-mouthed but vicious, intended to inflict damage. He didn’t like himself for making them. It wasn’t the person he was.

Yassen inspected his face in silence. Eventually he nodded, evidently judging him sufficiently cowed. “I’m going for some fresh air,” he said. “ _Don’t,”_ the word was given a slight emphasis, a warning more potent than any threat, “get yourself into any more trouble.”

Alex nodded again, and Yassen left the tent, his footsteps ringing out on the floorboards and clattering down the steps with uncharacteristic force. Alex remained on the floor, breathing carefully as he conducted an internal audit. He was winded but nothing seemed to be broken. It had been warning, he realised as he rubbed his sore head, not a beating. A dominance display. The alpha male asserting his status. Putting the young interloper into his place.

* * *

Yassen left him to cool his heels for the rest of the afternoon. Alex wasn’t sure if it was intended to be a punishment but if it was, it had the desired effect. He had thought he’d been bored before, but now he was practically comatose. He paced. He flicked listlessly through the pages of Yassen’s book. He counted the stripes on the rug. He calculated the volume of the tent. He briefly considered masturbating, but he had no way to clean up and even he could recognise that jerking into Yassen’s bed sheets would be a spectacularly bad idea. He lay on his stomach and stared out of the narrow triangle at the base of the tent door, watching as the cloud shadows chased across the porch. The wind had picked up. Once or twice, when it shifted, he thought he heard distant voices. The slam of a car door. The bleat of a goat. For the rest of the time, any noise was swallowed by the immensity of the surrounding wilderness. The only sound was the wind humming along the tent canvas, and the distant calls of birds whose names he didn’t know.

What was he doing with his life, he wondered, staring at the rug with brooding eyes. His friends were all out clubbing, or climbing, or posting videos on TikTok, while he was tied up in a tent in the middle of South America, his wellbeing dependent on the good will of one man. The man who had killed his uncle. A man who also it appeared, had been intimately involved with his father. A man who, in his infinite wisdom, Alex had just gone out of his way to antagonise.

“At least lunch was included,” he consoled himself, picking at a loose thread on the rug. But for once humour provided little solace. He could blame MI6 for recruiting him. He could blame Yassen for his choice of livelihood. He could blame his long-dead father for betraying his mother. But the situation had been made ten times worse by his own hot-headedness. And if he was being honest, it wasn’t the first time. Alex was wired for mayhem. Wherever he went chaos followed at his heels. And when it didn’t, he made sure to create it. Sooner or later he was going to have deal with that habit.

As if to reflect his darkening mood rain began to patter onto the tent roof. At first a scatter of droplets then an increasingly heavy drumming, followed by rumbles of thunder a storm set in. The temperature dropped and the tent dissolved into a murky twilight. As he turned on the lamp he remembered with a flash of annoyance that his clothes were still hanging outside. They would be wetter now than they had been that morning. He was debating whether he would be justified in borrowing a change of clothes from the locker when he heard the sound of footsteps climbing up the stairs to the porch. He turned, his stomach tightening, in time to see Yassen duck through the door, bringing with him a gust of cold air and the smell of wet greenery.

“Hi,” he said guardedly. The impulse to retreat was powerful but he made himself stand still, keeping the tent post safely between them. In the silence which followed, he took in the details of Yassen’s appearance. He was drenched, hair plastered to his scalp and his clothes soaking wet, runnels of water pooling at his feet. “You’re wet.”

A tight blue stare greeted this observation. Yassen’s face was as blank as a stone wall but the hard angle of his shoulders revealed him to be as annoyed as Alex had ever seen him. “I didn’t have my coat.”

“O-kay.” To his relief he was saved from the need to say anything further by the lamp flickering twice and extinguishing with a sharp buzz, leaving them standing in twilight.

Yassen gave a low growl of annoyance. “Wait there.”

He picked his way across the tent, shedding water from his clothes as he went. _Mad as a wet cat,_ Alex thought, remembering one of Jack’s sayings, and smiled despite himself. With his svelte build, blue eyes, and pale colouring, there was something very reminiscent of a wet Siamese about Yassen’s current appearance. Without speaking, Yassen crouched by the duffle bag and dug into the side pocket, taking out a Maglite which he hung from a convenient hook on the tent pole. Power outages were not uncommon this high up in the mountains. A few moments adjusting the focus and the tent was bathed in a hazy light.

“Cosy,” Alex said and was rewarded by another glacial stare. Clearly his thoughts on home decor were neither wanted nor welcomed at this trying time. In the pause that followed he was tempted to say more, but seeing Yassen’s expression, and remembering his earlier resolution, he managed to hold his tongue. He retreated instead to sit in his usual corner and hugged his knees to his chest.

Without a further glance in his direction, Yassen began stripping off his wet clothes, trainers first and then T-shirt. He worked methodically as though he had forgotten he had an audience; Alex by contrast was unable to look away. He couldn’t have said what had changed from the previous evening. Maybe it was the way the torchlight slipped over Yassen’s wet skin. Maybe it was the way his sodden T-shirt clung to his chest and emphasised the smooth lines of his body. Maybe it was simply how he was carrying himself: with an intriguing air of tightly repressed fury. Whatever it was, it caught Alex's attention and riveted it to the spot. As he watched, transfixed, Yassen took hold of the hem of his T-shirt and peeled it off slowly, with a long flex of his abdominals, like a clip from a soft-focus porn film. The moment extended itself into eternity, giving Alex the opportunity to observe every detail of the revealed flesh: the flat stomach with its rise of blond hair, the hard chest and tight cold pink nipples, while outside the rain drummed downwards in an endless flood.

Like a lock opening, something in his head shifted, all the pins of his thoughts tumbling into a new alignment. A number of previously unacknowledged mysteries resolved themselves. His habit of always falling for the unavailable girls. The strangely ambiguous yet highly detailed fantasies. Why he had started to avoid the locker room because the heat and the sweat and the press of naked male bodies made his stomach feel odd. Why Yassen's coat suddenly felt a good size too small.

Yassen dropped the T-shirt on the floor, then began stripping off his jeans with no trace of embarrassment. Beneath, he was wearing a pair of close-fitting black shorts. The rain had soaked through those too, Alex registered, before they too dropped to the floor. Naked, Yassen picked up a towel from the top of the locker and rubbed himself briskly dry. Seen from behind, it was clear his slim build was deceptive. He wasn’t fragile, far from it. He was simply, Alex thought as his gaze descended down his back to the smooth rise of his behind, very... tightly... packed.

Yassen stepped into the cotton trousers he had worn the previous night and fastened the tie at his waist. Turning, he reached for his T-shirt and paused when he saw Alex was watching. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly and rested his chin on his knees, watching surreptitiously through his fringe as Yassen tugged the T-shirt down to his hips with an impatient flex of his biceps. Other people managed to figure these things out with the help of the internet and a box of Kleenex, he thought resentfully. Why did he have to have his formative moment of sexual awakening trapped in a tent with his sworn nemesis while bundled up like the Michelin man?


End file.
